The Locket
by sparly503
Summary: Sometimes the simplest of objects mean the most. John finds something of Sherlock's and soon realises just how much it means.


**Title:** The Locket  
><strong>Summary:<strong> Sometimes the simplest of objects mean the most. John finds something of Sherlock's and soon realises just how much it means.  
><strong>Disclaimer:<strong> Don't know, don't own, don't sue.  
><strong>AN: **Based on a one word prompt "locket" by my friend. It's the product of writing late at night, which seems to be the only time my muse is alive and dancing :) My first Sherlock fic, hope you enjoy. Just a bit of randomness that was in my head.

Mess. John knew he was fighting a losing battle trying to clear up the flat but really, there was a limit to how much untidiness he could deal with. He didn't go near the kitchen because experience had taught him that accidentally unearthing any horrors of Sherlock's experiments would most likely scar him for life, never mind the war. Images of decapitated heads, human eyeballs and various other body parts in the fridge filled his mind momentarily as he glanced into the kitchen, before he turned his back on _that_room's particular mess and faced the living room. If he couldn't completely tidy up, he could at least clean up around the edges.

Advancing upon a dangerous looking amount of paper and notes on the desk, squaring his shoulders as he prepared to combat the job before him, he caught his foot on something on the floor and found himself falling downwards, hitting his knees hard.

"Bugger," he cursed, wincing at the dull pain that was reverberating through his legs. "Goddamn _mess_."

In a flash of irritation he swiped out at whatever had tripped him and in doing so felt his fingers brush against something fine and cool, which he instinctively seized and brought into his chest. Rocking backwards so he was kneeling on the floor, John relaxed his fist so he could inspect what he'd just grabbed. Entwined around his palm was a metal chain and dangling off it, swaying softly, was a locket. _A locket?_ John thought bewildered, lifting it up so it was level with his eyes. Tarnished silver shined dully as it swung back and forth, catching the weak sunlight that filtered in through the windows, gleaming intriguingly as it beckoned John to open it. Unsure if this was an invasion of privacy but figuring Sherlock would never know, he flicked the catch quickly and opened the locket curiously. _After all_, he reasoned, _if this is a touch of personal emotionalism maybe it'd be good to get an insight into his mind. He is so hard to read, after all._

But when he opened it and saw what was inside, he was truly nonplussed. Slowly he ran his index finger around the cold, metal edge of the oval, then stroked the equally cool plate in the centre. Nothing but silver touched his skin because, and this was what puzzled him, there _was_nothing in it. Frowning, John closed it again and re-clicked the clasp, then gently placed it on the floor where he had found it. He sighed and turned back to the desk.

_Sherlock Holmes, I will never understand you_, he thought as he got started on the paper.

* * *

><p>"It's so boring being in between cases."<p>

John smiled to himself as he listened to Sherlock talk from the other room, a hint of a whine edging into his voice.

"Doesn't solving a crime make you feel good?" He called back, "Accomplished?"

He could picture the roll of Sherlock's eyes as he replied in a bored, slightly exasperated tone.

"Yes, of course. But only for a certain amount of time. We can't all bask in small victories, John."

John just grinned and entered the living room, ignoring the jibe as he often had to do, and sat down in his chair, placing the plate he was carrying on the arm of it. He looked over at his flatmate, who, at that current moment, was sprawled back against the sofa, head tilted back so John got a clear view of the line of his jaw and the curve of his neck. He kicked his shin lightly to get his attention, then offered the plate to him.

"Sandwich?" He asked.

Sherlock looked down at the plate in John's hand, glancing disdainfully at the sandwich, but he took it anyway.

After a few moments silence John cleared his throat, deciding to try and do some investigating of his own.

"So I cleaned the flat a bit today," he said, giving a quick half-gesture around the room.

"You did?" Sherlock raised his eyebrows, following the motion with his gaze as he swept it over the flat, "So you did." He answered his own question.

"Well not that much, I left a lot of it alone, so I was just thinking, if you have anything that's personal that you wouldn't want me to see-"

"What did you find?" Sherlock asked calmly, taking a bite of the sandwich. His eyes were lit with amusement as he regarded John and how uncomfortable he'd made him with only one sentence.

"What? Nothing...I was just saying if you _did_..."

"No you weren't. You were just attempting to get me to talk about whatever you've found without actually mentioning you've found it."

John held his defiance for a second longer but had to give in with a sigh of defeat, causing Sherlock to smirk. John let his embarrassment of being caught out fade before he shot a questioning glance at Sherlock that said _'how did you know?'_.

"Oh come on John," Sherlock scoffed, "You are many things but subtle is not one of them. I don't even need honed observational skills to see through you. Any idiot would have known you were lying."

"I wasn't _lying_." John huffed, slightly offended. Sherlock laughed.

"You're as easy to read as a children's ABC book. The fact that you couldn't keep eye contact while speaking, coupled with the knowledge that you wouldn't have even considered finding anything personal of mine unless you'd already found it and that you'd only tell me about a job once it's done, not halfway through, as you inferred you were planning to do more cleaning by warning me about my possessions, leaves me with the conclusion that, while doing all the cleaning you are going to do for awhile, you found something of mine and you wish to know more about it. So," he kept his eyes firmly trained on John's face, a smile tugging at his lips, "all I've got to ask is, _what did you find?_"

John scowled at Sherlock for a moment but couldn't help smiling back.

"No one can be subtle around you." He commented.

"Fair point," Sherlock put the plate down next to him and stretched out, waiting for John to answer his question like he knew he would. He didn't have to wait long because John's curiousity quickly won over his pride and he found himself blurting out what he'd been determined not to say.

"I found a locket."

Although Sherlock's reaction was so fleeting it was barely noticeable, John had become accustomed to latching onto the slightest thing about Sherlock, an unexpected rise in his intonation, a flicker in his expression, in the hope of being able to comprehend him a bit more, so despite his swiftly covering it up, John didn't fail to notice the quick flash of pain that crossed Sherlock's face.

"It was my mothers," he said flatly.

Although his voice was indifferent, John wasn't buying this dismissive front.

"But why is it _empty_?" He asked hurriedly, hoping the answer would distract Sherlock from his admittance that he'd opened it. Of course, it didn't, but Sherlock appeared to pass over this with just an odd look at him and replied.

"Represents me."

And with that he stood up abruptly, marking the end of the conversation. He turned as if to say something but appeared to think better of it and just walked out, letting the silence surround John like a fog. Leaning back in his chair, he thought about the feeling of detached aloofness Sherlock had conveyed when questioned about the locket and when he'd given his answer to John's confusion about the absence of content. And he thought about how it wasn't quite enough to cover up the hurt in his eyes as he'd said it.

* * *

><p>If he concentrated hard enough, John could hear the muffled sounds of morning in London as the streets bustled with the life that had been slowly increasing over the last few hours, the sound of commuters scurrying to work, and cars rumbling past in a slow trudge to their destination. But he <em>really<em> had to concentrate since there was a silence that filled the flat ominously, pressing in around him, roaring until all other noises became tinny notes and muffled sounds. Like being in a glass box with the world going on around him and nothing worth concentrating on but the oppressive oxygen supply.

With a soft sigh John finished the note he was writing and placed it next to the box on his bed. He wasn't sure if this was the best way to remedy a situation that he had inadvertently caused and was well aware of the vulnerability and risk he was opening himself up to, but ultimately he'd decided that trying to help Sherlock would be worth it. _I trust him_, he thought truthfully, winning the internal argument that had been resounding in his head all throughout the previous night.

He reached down to touch the box. His memories. His own treasure. Obscure little things inside, things to remind him, to remember, things to look at and feel the way he felt before. The pebble with the hole straight through that he'd found on the beach as a child, an award certificate, a letter from Harry, a whistle, a sketch of his parents drawn by a family friend. And finally, the most recent addition, a photo Sherlock had begrudgingly let John take of them when he'd convinced him to take a break and go out for the day to relax. Scraps of himself and his life that he kept. Scraps he didn't let anyone else see.

But he trusted Sherlock. And he cared enough to believe that he needed this.

Carefully he picked up the box, and the note with it, and left his room. Sherlock had gone an hour earlier. He'd made no reference to the previous evenings conversation but instead didn't say much at all, which was why John no longer wanted an explanation and rather wished to reassure his friend that metal did not in any way represent him, that he was neither cold nor empty. He was not the locket.

When he got to Sherlock's bedroom he paused by the door. He'd never really been in Sherlock's room. Heavens, _Sherlock_ rarely went in his own room. If it was kept anything like the way Sherlock ordered the rest of the flat John wasn't sure he'd be able to find his way out again. _Organized mess_ is what Sherlock had once called it, _everything placed where it should be_.

But much to his surprise, when he tentatively pushed open the door, he was confronted with not only a tidy room but a normal one as well. His bed, a wardrobe, an amazingly clear desk, a bedside table. Nothing odd or out of the ordinary, no special experiments being conducted in there. It was just a room. And for some strange reason John felt more like he was intruding than he had before.

Nonetheless he edged in, walked straight over to the desk and placed what he had brought down on the wood. He tried not to be nosy but couldn't help scanning around the room out of interest and he caught his eye on the bedside table. On it were only a few things. A glass of water, aspirin, a radio alarm that looked unused and expensive. _Mycroft_, John thought. And there, its chain curled around the glass, was the locket. _He must've taken it_, John mused, then whispered to himself, _taken it away from where I could see it. It really affected him that much._

With a last glance back at the room, he left, work beckoning a welcome relief.

* * *

><p>Many patients, prescriptions and cups of tea later, John found himself once more climbing the stairs to 221B, as he did every day, except with a little more worry than most days. Which, equalled out against the adrenaline inducing anxiety he had to go through most days, was a lot more worry than most people usually felt on returning from work. The locket, his box and Sherlock had been playing on his mind all day and now, just before he was about to enter the flat and see his friend, he found himself hoping against hope that Sherlock had not come home yet and he could take the box back unnoticed.<p>

As soon as he opened the door he knew that wasn't going to be the case. Sitting in front of him, staring intently at the box in his hands, was Sherlock. He looked up briefly as John entered, then looked back down.

"Um, hey, Sherlock..."John started, not sure how to begin this conversation or explain the reasoning why he'd given him his box. To be honest, he wasn't sure why. It had just felt right. Somehow, just "feeling right" didn't seem a sufficient enough answer though.

Sherlock didn't reply for a few seconds, whether he didn't know what to say or was debating his next sentence John couldn't tell, but in the end he stood up and walked over to him, clutching the note John hadn't noticed on top of the box.

"This," he said when he was standing opposite him, "is ridiculously sentimental."

But he smiled, a real genuine smile, and carried on.

"It's dangerous to be so reminiscent of the past. Or to keep things you hold an emotional attachment to."

"Speak for yourself." John said, smiling back.

"My locket was devoid of sentimentality. It was empty. Your box is filled with personal feelings."

"True." John agreed. "Wait, was?"

"Is."

John walked round Sherlock during the pause in the conversation that followed and sat in his chair, staring up at the taller mans back. He casually leant back, relaxing in the seat, before continuing the discussion with a question.

"It was your mothers? Did she give it to you empty?" Here he was really curious. _Does he just not want it filled or did he remove what was inside?_

Sherlock turned and looked down at him, an odd expression on his face. He looked like he was having trouble remembering but when he spoke, he did so with such clarity that John was sure he'd known the answer instantly all along.

"Yes. When she first had it, it had a picture of my father in it. Later in life there was a lock of mine and Mycroft's hair." Here he pulled a face and John couldn't help laughing. "But when she gave it to me she told me to put in it something special to myself. Something about someone I loved."

John took this in silently.

"But it's still empty...?"He pointed out, knowing as he said it the reason why and wishing he hadn't been stupid enough to not realise it sooner. Sherlock gave him a sad sort of smile that didn't seem to exist.

"There was nothing I loved enough. Except for my work and I don't think any part of _that_ would be suitable for a locket."

"Oh I don't know," John joked, "I'm sure it could do with a bit of blood and codes to crack inside it. Especially after years of putting up with you and your brother's _hair_."

They both laughed and were glad of the upbeat turn the situation had taken. It was like the fog had been lifted, if only for awhile, and they were back to normal. As normal as they could be. But despite this, knowing how precariously balanced this issue was, John had to carry on with the conversation. _I'm no psychologist,_ he thought_, but maybe it'll do him good to talk._

"How did that make you feel?" He asked cautiously. Sherlock snorted, apparently still caught up in mirth.

"What are you, my therapist? Next you'll be saying "oh, do go on"," he mocked. John just looked at him seriously and Sherlock dropped the act, and added in a more serious tone, "This message you wrote...thanks for that."

He fluttered it about, then read it out loud.

""You're not cold and empty. Arrogant, annoying and imperious, yes. But you're also pretty brilliant. And interesting. And you have a heart. So cold and empty, definitely not.""

John cringed slightly but smiled nonetheless.

"Sorry, it was early, my brain wasn't fully functioning then," he explained.

"Am I really annoying?" Sherlock asked, frowning.

"Exceedingly so," John laughed, not sure if Sherlock was really offended or not but finding the confused, childish look on his face too funny not to, "Sorry."

"Hmmm," Sherlock muttered. "But still, it's very...nice...you know, what you wrote...I'm touched..."

And although he coughed in embarrassment and laughed, John could see that he really was.

"That's fine," he said amicably. Sensing that maybe now he should leave Sherlock in peace he turned away, heading for the stairs, "I'm just going to go shower."

He could practically feel Sherlock's nod of dismissal but just before he left the room he spun back around to face him again.

"One last thing. That locket...you seemed hurt when I asked you about it. I know why but..." He asked tentatively, "why?"

Sherlock gazed at him, his eyes filled with a foreign emotion John had never seen before in him.

"It hurt to admit I'm like metal. But I accepted it. When you found it and asked me about it..." He paused, as if scared to reveal the next bit of the sentence, to reveal too much of himself, "It hurt even more to admit I cared."

John blinked, waited for an expansion to this.

"I'm not _supposed_ to care. I felt ashamed about it, because you're so..." Sherlock appeared to be at a loss for the correct words, so carried on, leaving the sentence hanging, "It just frightened me, to feel like I should love something alive, like the rest of you people. It _hurt_ to not want to be me."

He looked down, eye contact one step too far in this opening up he was having. John felt overwhelmed with a great feeling of protectiveness for Sherlock, for his vulnerability, of guilt for making him feel that way but relief too. _He's so_human. _We all forget that sometimes._He strode forward quickly and before Sherlock knew what was happening he'd wrapped his arms around him and pulled him into a hug. Feeling the surprise radiating from Sherlock he smiled, happy with this change in emotion. Sherlock coughed.

"John," he said, amusement and teasing ringing through his voice, "when you said you needed to shower, you were right."

Letting go, John hit him lightly on the arm and turned his back on him to go upstairs.

* * *

><p>Stepping out of the shower that had so deliciously warmed his skin and washed away the intensity and disorientating uncertainty of the previous twenty four hours, John slung a towel around his waist and rested against the cool bathroom door, absentmindedly watching a trickle of water slide down his arm, past his elbow, encircling his wrist and dripping off his finger. As he reclined his head back against the wood, he contemplated this new revelation about Sherlock and how he felt. Admittedly it had been hard but overall John was glad he'd found the locket. He felt, and he couldn't quite figure out why, a whole lot closer to Sherlock, like he knew him on a whole new level. <em>Perhaps it's because he knows so much about me, now I know something important about him, only I had to go the long, commonly used way of asking, rather than deducing everything from sight.<em>John chuckled to himself. _Then again, every time you think you know him..._

He was worried, however, about just how much Sherlock cared about this. It wasn't like him to be so upset over _himself_, and John knew he was really upset because he'd be damned if Sherlock ever talked about emotions unnecessarily. And to go so far as to say ashamed- John saw that Sherlock _did_ care about people a lot more than he let on, if not out of friendship then respect. But how could he prove that to the man himself, who could be so ridiculously stubborn?

Sighing deeply, John dried himself off and pulled his clothes on. He'd find a way. He always did.

When John entered his bedroom the first thing he noticed was his box, lying on his bed. Second was the locket, placed on top, the chain spiralling around the main piece, then draping down the edge. And lastly, as he stepped closer, he saw a note, on similar paper to his own, resting next to them. Gently he lifted the locket to one side, picked the box up and returned it to where it belonged, in his bedside drawer, close to where he slept, as if he were safe-guarding it, or perhaps the other way around. Then he went back over to his bed and sat down, careful not to bend the mattress so the locket didn't slide off the bed.

He took the note in his hands first; noting the hasty scrawl which meant the note was not planned out and had been done on a whim. _New career as an amateur detective, here I come,_he thought without being serious, and then decided to not antagonise his own patience and just read it.

_There_was _nothing I loved._

_Past tense, John. You should always recognise it in someone's speech. It says a lot._

_Thank you, for this._

_As a proper way of showing my gratitude I just thought I'd let you know the fridge is empty._

_Of anything edible, at least. So if you could get some food that'd be great._

_Don't forget the milk._

John actually laughed out loud. Rolling his eyes, he folded the note in half and went over to the drawer, opening the box and putting it inside. Pure Sherlock was just what he needed. As he did so, he got the inexplicable feeling that something was missing. Not sure what it was, he began flitting through all the things in his box, no clue what he was looking for but searching all the same. After a few minutes looking, as he relented and gave the note from Sherlock a final stroke with his fingertips, he gave a start. Sherlock. The picture of them together on that day out. He couldn't find it.

Frowning, he closed the box, placed it back in the drawer and looked around his room, wondering if he'd somehow dropped it somewhere. As he did, his eyes alighted on the bed and, realisation dawning on him, the locket.

Rushing over, he literally pounced on it and then, almost hurriedly, he flicked the catch, only half certain that there wouldn't still be nothing in it. But there, nestled inside, was the photo. Smiling up at him, the two of them on an enjoyed, albeit freezing day out, bundled up in coats and gloves and scarves. John's heart gave a lurch and he found himself smiling back as a warm, bubbly feeling started in his chest and spread out throughout his body. _Thank you_, Sherlock had written. _Thank_you_,_ John thought.

And when he noticed faint black lines on the photo and fished it out, he read the writing Sherlock had scribbled on the back.

_John Watson and I._

_Doctor, colleague,_

_-true friend._


End file.
